


The Talking Room

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternative to S9, Angst, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Truth Spells, post-s8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:31:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a room in the bunker: an ordinary-enough room, full of dust and filing cabinets--but it does this one weird thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Talking Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written for [fallencastielle](http://fallencastielle.tumblr.com/), one of the winners of my [2013 Follower Appreciation/Fanfiction Giveaway](http://todisturbtheuniverse.tumblr.com/post/60855606001/todisturbtheuniverses-follower-appreciation-giveaway) on Tumblr, who requested a Dean/Cas truth spell fic.
> 
> This fic is in no way related to season 9, which I haven't watched and know very little about; it exists instead in the vacuum I've imagined post-season 8, where somehow everything turned out generally crummy but also okay after Castiel and the angels fell. Sam didn't die, Castiel lives in the bunker, and the world outside is being held at bay for the time being. There's some serious fluff afoot here.

"No, no, no. Oh, come _on_."

Dean rattled the ancient doorknob with one hand and smacked the heel of his palm around the lock with the other, but it was no use; the door had clicked shut and locked automatically behind him, and now he was in this ugly half-gloom in a wing of the damn bunker they hadn't even explored yet in a room that Sam had no idea existed. Maybe he'd praised the soundproofing when he wanted to listen to an old record at the highest volume possible, but he wasn't praising it now.

He scooted the plate with its perfect burger out of the way, to make sure it wouldn't get hit by any flying debris when he tried his next plan of action, and backed up a step. His knees were already creaking in protest.

"I'm getting too old for this shit," he muttered, bracing himself for the impact of slamming his foot into the door. He doubted it would do much good—some doors just weren't made to be broken—but he had to _try_ , for fuck's sake. "Dammit, Cas, why couldn't you stick to the kitchen?"

"Dean?"

Dean bit his lip on a yelp of surprise and got the metallic taste of blood in his mouth for his trouble. Wheeling around, he squinted into the poorly-lit room. There was a light coming from somewhere in the back corner, but it was moving now, the beam sliding shakily over filing cabinets and tall metal shelves, all lined with decades of dust. A bit of it kicked up when the light source brushed against a cabinet. Compulsively, Dean sneezed.

"That you, Cas?" he asked, eyes watering.

"Yes," the voice answered gloomily, and Castiel came into view between two cabinets, angling the flashlight down so that Dean could see his face. There was a considerable amount of dust in his dark brown hair, making him look as if he'd abruptly aged ten years. The glum look on his face didn't help, either; it deepened the lines in his brow and around his mouth. Dressed in jeans and one of Dean's old t-shirts, he looked the part of a grumpy dad.

Dean felt the sudden, fleeting urge to smile, but fought it down. Things were not exactly easy between him and Cas. Air cleared or not, the last year—hell, the last few years—had deeply shaken their friendship, and these days, Dean didn't have much hope that it would ever be repaired. Most of the time, Cas wouldn't even look at him.

A little like now, actually: his piercing blue eyes rested only momentarily on Dean's before falling to the floor, where his boot twitched, as though about to kick up another cloud of dust. It was kind of awful, when Castiel had once been the world's best awkward starer.

"What are you doing here?" he asked the boot.

"I made you a burger, but you weren't in your room." Dean frowned, running his tongue over the split in his lip. He could have sworn he'd been about to make a terrible joke about wrong turns while hiding the accusatory burger behind his feet. Instead, he turned and picked the plate up, hefting it one-handed while holding it out to Castiel. "Here."

"Oh." Castiel looked up, his eyes widening a bit as they fixed on the burger, if not Dean. He shuffled forward, kicking up little clouds of dust and leaving clean streaks on the metal floor in his wake, and took the plate with the burger on it. He held it away from him, a little awkwardly, as if he didn't know what to do with it. "Thank you, Dean. Don't you have one?"

Dean jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "It's back in the kitchen, but apparently, I'm not allowed to go there."

Castiel nodded sadly. "I'm sorry. I should have called out when you first opened the door, but I think I fell asleep."

He seemed a little bemused by this. Since falling, Castiel had had a hard time settling into a set sleep schedule; instead, he seemed seized by fits of drowsiness at random times, and napped wherever was closest and most convenient. Dean had found him on the couch in the library, on the floor in the kitchen, braced against the sink in the bathroom, but never once did he make it to his damn bed.

"It's okay, Cas," Dean said hurriedly. "There's gotta be another way out. Did you shout for us at all?"

Castiel frowned now, looking straight at Dean. "No."

Dean took a deep breath, filling his lungs, and bellowed, "SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!"

Castiel flinched, but didn't drop the burger or the flashlight. In the ringing silence following Dean's shout, they listened, but not so much as a footstep sounded in the distance.

"Dammit," Dean muttered, rubbing his throat absent-mindedly. He braced himself to kick the door down again, squaring his shoulders.

"Dean," Castiel said hurriedly, "don't. I already tried—"

Dean's foot connected, a solid, dull _thump_ beside the lock, but all he got for his trouble was a jarring pain reverberating up his leg and piercing through his knee. He staggered back and caught his balance before he could topple, swearing under his breath while he tested his weight on his leg. Nothing broken, but that door was too heavy by far, and he'd bet his perfect, gourmet, out-of-reach burger that his foot was bruised despite the thick boots protecting him.

"Okay," Dean muttered. "Plan B. I think we need to find another way out."

"I looked," Castiel said, a touch plaintively, as Dean moved to the other side of the door to start feeling out the walls. "Dean, I've been in here for hours, and I didn't find anything."

"A second pair of eyes never hurts, though, huh?" Dean ran his fingers over a likely-looking crack, but only got a faceful of dust in return. He held his breath, trying not to sneeze.

"I guess," Castiel allowed, still hovering a few feet behind Dean, who waved him off.

"Eat your burger. I've got this." Truth be told, his skin crawled a bit with Cas watching him that close, and his mind wasn't exactly on the job when he was wondering what the hell was wrong with his best friend instead. Or what the hell was wrong with _them_. Or what the hell was wrong with the world.

There was always something wrong with something.

He'd kind of believed that things would be better, after getting the call that Castiel was stranded in the middle of nowhere and full-on human. At the very least, the feathery bastard—not so feathery anymore—couldn't flutter off at the drop of a hat to where Dean couldn't follow. No, if he tried to run now, Dean could always track him down. There was something sickeningly reassuring about that. He didn't look at the pit in his stomach too closely.

But just because Cas couldn't run didn't mean all the wounds were suddenly healed, and since the asshole had decided that keeping to himself and away from the rest of them was his best course of action, it wasn't like they were making any progress on that front. Most of the time, it seemed like Cas couldn't stand to be in the same _room_ as Dean, and Dean couldn't bring himself to ask why. That was a whole can of worms he could probably stand to keep closed.

As long as they were perched tentatively on this swaying fence, there was still hope. But if Dean made the wrong move and shoved Cas to one side while he fell to the other, there would be nothing left—not a shred.

So Dean went on feeling out the walls and groping behind shelves while Cas retreated with his burger, his eyes on the floor, a whipped dog expecting another beating, and Dean's stomach wound tighter until food didn't appeal to him at all anymore.

A search of the entire room turned up nothing, except for a couple of scraped fingers and muffled curses. By the time he settled on the floor, bracing his back against the cabinet across from Cas, the newly-fallen angel had only managed to eat half his burger. He offered the plate back to Dean, his glance meeting Dean's gaze just briefly before skittering away again.

"You worked so hard on them," he said, his voice even. "And you must be hungry."

Dean took the plate. "Thanks, Cas," he said, watching the downcast eyes, and took a bite. It loosened the knot in his stomach; comfort food always did that, somehow. Even half-cold, the burger was still good, and a little bloom of pride opened up in his chest before he squashed it back down.

"So," Dean said cautiously, between bites of burger, "how've you been?"

"Terrible." Despite the strong description, Castiel's voice was relatively neutral. Dean raised his eyebrows. "I shouldn't be here. If only I could say that my worst crime is being useless; instead, I've all but painted a target on you...all." He shook his head, a little twitch that seemed almost involuntary. "I didn't mean to say that." His voice was low now.

"Is that why you've been avoiding me?" Dean asked, placing the empty plate on the ground beside him. "Because you think you're putting us in danger?"

"Not just that." Castiel's chin tipped up, finally, his eyes resting on Dean's. They were a little this side of too wide, the white showing all the way around. "I've disappointed you. You told me not to go through with it, and I was too proud, too desperate, to listen to you—again. And I made everything worse. Again. Stop asking me questions." This last sentence was abrupt, colored with desperation and accompanied by another head shake. "I can't seem to stop myself from answering them truthfully."

As peculiar as that was, Dean shook it off. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and it seemed that this, finally, was the chance to set Cas straight.

"If I only kept around the people who didn't fuck up, I'd be living in this damn bunker alone," he said firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Cas's. "I'm not exactly a saint, myself. We all make mistakes. And we've got the misfortune of being tangled up in things so big that when we make mistakes, everything goes to hell, but we always come out on the other side, huh? We're doin' fine, Cas. The world hasn't ended, and I'm not disappointed. I had the chance to close Hell for good, and I didn't do it."

"To save Sam," Castiel replied, frowning. "Anyone could forgive you that."

"And you were trying to save Heaven," Dean returned, frowning right back. "They're your brothers and sisters, even if your relationship with them has been a little...strained, the last few years." Castiel's eyes raised to the ceiling, and stayed there. It was very nearly a full eye-roll. "Isn't that the same thing?"

"You succeeded," Castiel said, his dark voice bitter. "I failed. In fact, I accomplished the exact opposite of what I was attempting. In trying to protect Earth from angelic chaos, I inflicted the worst sort of angelic chaos _on_ Earth."

"It's not so bad," Dean said, waving this off. "We haven't heard much, you know? Definitely not as much noise as..." He swallowed, intending to change tack at the last minute, but instead went on to speak his original thought, the one that certainly wouldn't make Cas feel any better. "...when you were running around with the Leviathan."

Cas gave him a sharp look, angry and wounded and wearily accepting all at once, while Dean cleared his throat. There was a tickle deep in there that wouldn't get out.

"Hang on." He shook his head. "I didn't mean to say that."

"I tried to tell you," Cas said wearily. "There must be a spell on this room." He traced a swirl in the dust beside him. They were both going to be covered in the stuff by the time they escaped. "We can't speak falsehoods here."

"Are you sure?" Dean asked skeptically. "I mean, that's a witch thing, but I've never heard of a _room_ designed to do this."

"Ask me something," Cas invited, settling back against the cabinet as though bracing himself. "Something I know, but would never usually tell you."

Dean eyed his friend thoughtfully, thinking. It would have to be something from before—before all the horrible things between them had started to cut so deep. "Okay," he said slowly. "Why did you let me drag you to that club, the night before we caught Raphael?"

To Dean's surprise—and, admittedly, delight—Cas flushed a dull red. "I wanted to impress you," he said sullenly. "All my attempts to do so by that point had failed miserably. Even returning from death had done very little for your regard for me. I had exhausted all my options, so I...went along."

Dean guffawed, slapping his knee. "If you were hoping that would do the trick," he choked out, "uh, you were wrong."

Cas frowned severely. At least he was looking at Dean again. "This is humiliating," he grumbled.

"Aww, Cas, you don't need to impress me," Dean chuckled, wiping his eyes. It had been months, or maybe years, since he had laughed so hard. "It's overrated, trust me."

"Perhaps it is," Cas allowed. "I valued your friendship more. When I had it, that level of respect seemed unnecessary."

"What d'you mean, _when_ you had it?" Dean demanded, the last of his mirth fading. "What, do you think the friendship card gets revoked when you do one too many stupid things?"

"Yes," Cas said bluntly, as though resigned to it.

"Well, you're _really_ stupid, then," Dean said, a bit grouchily. "That's not the way it works, buddy."

"So I'm learning," Cas said, shifting a bit, and then the corner of his mouth hitched up in the smallest of smiles. Dean had missed that little expression; he didn't realize how much until just then. It warmed Cas's unnaturally blue eyes, deepened the crow's feet at the corners—he seemed to defrost then and there, all his muscles loosening in the wake of that smile.

"Do I get to ask an inappropriate and embarrassing question now?" he continued.

"I think we've established that the room does an unnatural thing," Dean said, rolling his eyes.

"It's only fair," Cas chided.

"Fine." Dean crossed his arms over his chest, a little defensively. "Hit me."

"Why did you look for me so persistently in Purgatory?" The question was blunt and immediate, and Dean flinched a little at the impact. "It was obvious I had abandoned you." A note of shame had entered Cas's tone. "That was how I intended you to see it. So that you wouldn't look for me and put yourself in danger."

 _That isn't inappropriate **or** embarrassing, it's just awkward_, Dean wanted to protest. Instead, his jaws wrenched apart and he spoke, half-against his will. The tickle in his throat eased a bit when he did. "I didn't care," he said, and that was the truth, because really, no one could have misinterpreted Castiel's flight from that monster-filled meadow. "I thought you must have had a reason. And I knew I was dead weight, especially in a place like that, but I had to find you, anyway. I wanted to make sure you were alive."

Cas wrinkled his nose. "You cared about my livelihood, even when it seemed I didn't care about yours?"

"That didn't really factor into it." Dean shifted uncomfortably. His neck felt a little warm, so he ducked his head, doing his best to hide the flush crawling up his cheeks. "Whether or not you cared didn't matter. I still did. Thought I could find you and drag you out of there, even kicking and screaming." He chuckled, but there was no mirth in the sound now. "Guess I didn't get that right, huh. Everyone's always so eager to ditch me, and I can't take a damn hint."

"That's not true," Cas said immediately. "It wasn't about _ditching_ you, Dean."

Dean waved this off. "I know. Truth spell, remember? I don't think it matters what I know in my head." And didn't that sound corny as anything, but that was where they were at, now, so he might as well grit his teeth and bear it. "It's how I feel. It's how it seems. Or something. I mean—how many times have you thrown yourself on the sword because of me?"

"Not _because of_ ," Cas said, just as insistently. " _For_. There is a very large distinction between the two, linguistically. I threw myself in the way _for_ you, so that you could save Sam; I distracted Michael _for_ you, so that you could save the world; I brought Sam back _for_ you, so that you would be happy; I made that deal with Crowley for you, so that you could keep a normal life." He shook his head. "Very few of them turned out for the better, but what I did was always for you. To protect you, to help you. None of it was some...unintended side-effect of your influence."

Dean swallowed. His throat had just gotten uncomfortably tight. "Just convenient that all of it involved you leaving, or dying, or otherwise staying away from me," he said.

"Convenient is not the word I would use. _In_ convenient, maybe. Infuriating." Cas shook his head. "Unfair. But at every turn, I've had to choose between what's best for you and what I wanted—and they never do seem to coincide." His smile was a little tired, now. "I can see how you'd get the wrong impression."

Dean didn't have anything to say to that. He cleared his throat again and traced a pattern in the dust beside him, only rousing when Cas nudged his calf with a booted foot.

"Your turn," he invited, his eyes perfectly serious.

"Maybe this isn't a good idea," Dean suggested, a little weakly.

"Maybe not," Cas allowed. "But it seems to be doing some good, doesn't it?"

Dean couldn't argue with that.

*

It would be better, Castiel thought, if they had something to drink.

Dean always went loose-limbed while drinking, warm with big smiles and dancing eyes, but every time he got close to that now, the truth spell made him—or Castiel—say something that had him tensed up again, the crow's feet fading from the corners of his eyes, the smile lines around his mouth smoothing out.

But did Dean even drink anymore? Castiel wasn't sure, and it was his turn now, so he asked.

"Do you still drink?"

Dean's eyebrows knitted together. "No," he said slowly, as though making an effort to answer as little of this question as possible. "Weird one, Cas."

"It isn't," Castiel replied. "You used to drink often. Every night. The middle of the day. During hunts." He wracked his brain; memories were more sluggish, now that he was only human. "The only time I've seen you do so recently was right before the angels fell, and that was only a beer."

Dean frowned. "I've laid off a little." There was a defensive note in his tone. "Stuff'll kill you, you know. Especially the way I was drinking it. I dried out in Purgatory, and...you know. Never really went back."

"'Dried out?'" Castiel echoed.

"Christ," Dean muttered, obviously frustrated by Castiel's refusal to drop this subject. "I ended up in withdrawal, okay? There's no whiskey in Purgatory, and I guess...I guess I'd gotten dependent." He squinted. "It wasn't pretty, but I came out the other side better for it. My head hadn't been so clear in years. Guess I didn't want to let that go, when I got back. You know, after we left you at that institution with Meg, we fought a Shojo? Except I was the only one who _could_ fight it, because my tolerance was so high that even while drunk, I could still function. Sure, it was good for that _one_ situation, but that's one of millions." He snorted. "Millions in which it could get me killed. It was time to give it up."

Castiel nodded, letting this lie, and Dean sagged back against the cabinet in relief, hunching into his folded arms. "Speaking of Meg," he said, and Castiel's stomach did that thing he hated so much—flipped, and then sank low, "what was going on with you two?"

Castiel could purposefully misinterpret this question, but he wouldn't. There was a tentative trust being re-established here; it would be idiotic to break it now, when they were finally getting another chance to be honest with one another.

"We were kindred spirits," he said at last. "I think you're familiar with the idea. Once, we both had a straightforward cause—it wasn't easy, of course, but it was simple. It was all about obedience. And then the Winchesters threw the whole thing for a loop, and our causes crumbled. I'm not blaming you," he added sharply, when Dean shifted uneasily. "It was necessary. But we were similar enough, even if we worked on opposing sides: we gave our swords to figures who failed us, to a cause that didn't uphold our ideals, and then we were left in the aftermath, learning how to survive without it. She was a demon, and opportunistic, but there was something...familiar about her. Something comforting. Maybe she always did the things she did for personal gain, but I didn't fault her for that, in the end."

He looked up in time to see Dean nod. "No, I think I get it," he said. "Me and Benny had a thing like that." His lips twisted down, the recent loss haunting his eyes momentarily, before they dulled again, sealing away that brief shine of pain.

Castiel hadn't particularly _liked_ Benny. He hadn't particularly _disliked_ Benny, either. He had been true to his word, after all, and helped Dean escape Purgatory. It was his personality that was infuriating: too strong, too blunt, too humorous for Castiel's liking. And there was a tiny bit of Castiel that, despite his tenuous friendship with Meg, still had some prejudice against the things that went bump in the night. Benny had been one of those things.

He didn't like that Dean grieved for what amounted to another lost brother, though, and he would take Benny's infuriating attitude in stride if it meant that Dean could have back one of the few friends he'd ever made for himself.

He didn't think of Purgatory often, but when he did, he remembered Dean catching him on that riverbank with a laugh on his lips and blood on his face, and he remembered the vampire's eyes lighting in realization as Dean's arms closed tight around him. He remembered the endless running, of course, but nothing was as bright as that moment, with his Grace still liquid fire in his veins and Dean's warmth welcoming him home. What had they almost been, right then? What had he missed during the last year, lost to Naomi's meddling?

Castiel had been many things—a traitor and a terrible friend most often—but no one had ever accused him of being a coward.

"Did you ever love me?" he asked, looking at the sole of Dean's boot rather than his face. He counted the beats of heavy silence while he waited for Dean's reply, breathing evenly to calm his suddenly racing heart.

"What?" Dean croaked at last.

Castiel frowned, unnerved by this response, and attempted to frame the question more logically. "It's hard to describe what we are to one another, isn't it? Every time I thought I had the word, it didn't fit right. Friends, brothers, maybe, but—I've had both, and I've always wanted more from you than I wanted from...from Sam, for example. Or from Meg." He swallowed, wishing his throat weren't suddenly so dry. "I wondered if it was the same for you. Once. Not now, but—once."

"Once?" Dean growled, and Castiel's chin jerked up to see the damage, only to find Dean within five inches of him, kneeling on the concrete floor, his green eyes lit with something like anger, but even that didn't fit quite right. "You stupid, feathery bastard—"

Castiel started to apologize, but Dean's mouth pressed to his, silencing the syllables that he hadn't thought out to begin with. The words had been harsh, bruising, but Dean's lips were the opposite, gentle and pliant and coaxing. Whatever thought Castiel had been entertaining promptly vanished, until all he knew was the strange roar in his ears, the soft fabric of Dean's shirt bunched in his grasp, and the taste of Dean on his lips.

"Oh," Castiel said, a little dubiously, when Dean finally pulled back.

"Oh," Dean mocked, a little fondly, a crooked smile decorating his mouth. "You really didn't know? I know I'm not the best communicator, but _really_?" He chuckled, the sound a little wan. "I thought it was obvious."

"I had _some_ idea," Castiel said reproachfully, still a little breathless. "Otherwise I wouldn't have asked. I wasn't sure if the invitation still stood."

Dean busied himself smoothing out the crease of Castiel's t-shirt. "Well," he said stoutly. "Are you sure now?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes, trying to affect the expression of innocence that Dean always found so unconvincing. "I may need another test," he hedged nonchalantly. "Just to be sure."

Dean was still chuckling as he dragged Castiel in for another kiss, palm warm on the back of Castiel's neck, blunt fingernails scratching gently through dark hair. Goosebumps rose on Castiel's arms, a pleasurable little shiver going through him at Dean's touch. He tipped his chin up and let Dean's palm, cradling his cheek, guide him. A muffled groan of pleasure rose up—from his throat or Dean's, he couldn't be sure.

And that, of course, was exactly when Sam—worried by their prolonged absence—found them: Dean leaning over Castiel, Castiel's fingers knotted up in Dean's shirt, dust rising around them with every little movement. Sam yelped, and Dean and Castiel turned as one to frown at him. Hurriedly, he backed up, groping for the doorknob.

"Sorry," he said, seemingly caught halfway between laughing and vomiting, "uh, I'm sorry, I'll just, I thought something might have—happened—"

"Don't!" Dean barked, but too late; Sam, rather than catching the door in his scramble to back up, had rested too much of his weight against it. It clicked shut, the lock snapping into place.

"That's unfortunate," Castiel remarked, feeling a little dazed by the quick succession of events.

"Oh," Sam said, rattling the lock. "So you guys really _were_ in trouble."

"Betrayed by my own bunker," Dean agreed, getting to his feet with a groan. He offered a hand down to help Castiel up, pairing it with a hearty smirk that Sam, his back turned, couldn't see. Castiel smiled back, warmth blooming in his chest, and let Dean drag him up.

"Kevin will come looking for us eventually," Sam muttered, stooping over now to peer at the crack in the door. "I hope. Did you try yelling?"

"Just the once," Dean said. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, now; even if Castiel didn't know the specifics, he knew that Sam was about to be forcibly sideswiped by the room's magic. He had the presence of mind to feel a little pity. "Hey, Sammy, remember that time when you were seventeen, and Dad and I took off on a hunt for a while? We left you the Impala?"

"Mm-hmm," Sam replied, absentminded, still examining the crack in the door.

"And when we came back," Dean continued, "the Impala smelled kind of funny, but you kept swearing nothing happened? What _really_ happened?"

"I had a girlfriend. I didn't want to show her the shitty motel room, so I took her around in the Impala." Sam straightened up so quickly that he nearly overbalanced; wheeling around, he announced, "I didn't mean to say that." There was a panicked glint in his eyes.

"Uh-huh," Dean said, grinning now. " _Seriously_ , Sam? You took a girl out in my car and told me it smelled like that because of some stale french fries?" He wagged a finger in Sam's direction. "I knew it."

"I didn't want you to know about her," Sam blurted, and he looked truly panicked now. "I knew you'd give me shit, and embarrass me in front of her, and—what the hell is going on?" he demanded finally, looking to Castiel instead of Dean, who had doubled over laughing, hands braced on his knees.

"There's a truth spell on the room," Castiel replied, patting Dean's shoulder. "If someone asks a direct question, you can't lie when you answer."

"Oh," Sam said, eyeing Dean a little warily now. He seemed alarmed by the laughter, now punctuated by hiccups. "And how's...that...going?"

Dean burst into a fresh round of guffaws, and Castiel, watching him, smiled.

"Fine," he said, and meant it, for the first time since Falling—for the first time since Purgatory—for the first time, perhaps, ever. "It's going fine."

*

Kevin left them there for a few hours, just to make sure that the message sank in, and then scratched out the discrete Enochian symbol under the lock. He stood in the doorway, leaving it propped carefully open against his knee, and surveyed the damage: Castiel asleep, his head on Dean's shoulder; Dean's cheek resting against Castiel's wild hair, now a nest of dust, eyes shut; Sam's long legs stretched out, a booted foot against Dean's knee, his head lolled back against the cabinets. They sat opposite one another down the center row of cabinets, Sam facing Dean, Castiel tucked against Dean's side.

It was the quietest—the most _peaceful_ —he'd ever seen them together.

"Good job, Kev," he muttered, with a nod to himself.

They were the most uncommunicative bastards he'd ever met, but they were kind of family now, too, and besides—it was a pain to go tiptoeing around the bunker when any one of them was in a funk, let alone all three.


End file.
